Angel
by mklnay
Summary: Finally, after over sixty years of watching from afar, Netherlands finally decides to tell Canada how he feels on Valentine's Day. Upon picking him up from the airport, poor Canada has no idea what he's in for. Threeshot. Written for Valentine's Day 2010.
1. Chapter 1

**Angel**  
by Mklnay

* * *

  
It is cold in the cell. The walls are grey and unfeeling, the iron bars a stark reminder of his imprisonment in his own country. The irony is not lost on Lars, cold and half-starved and wasted though he is.

Outside, he can hear the sounds of fighting. He doesn't know who it is this time; he only hopes that it his people aren't getting hurt too badly. This battle is simply one of many to be imprinted on his flesh, another focal point of pain that is drowned out by everything else. Rotterdam has yet to scab over; the burns that stripe Lars' back are open and oozing. Middelburg too is a livid welt on his lower abdomen. Everywhere, he feels the pain and suffering of his people like small needles boring into his skin, but over it all rules the merciless, never ending hunger.

A small part of him, the very, very small part that has retreated from the anguish, is slightly surprised that he is still sane. Yet Lars knows that it would take more than this to break him- to break his _people_.

_Mijn Schilt ende betrouwen_ _Sijt ghy, o Godt mijn Heer,_ _Op u soo wil ick bouwen_ _Verlaet mij nimmermeer:_

Because they are Dutch, he is the Kingdom of Netherlands, and they will fight and pray and never give up.

_Dat ick doch vroom mach blijven_ _V dienaer taller stondt,_ _Die Tyranny verdrijven,_ _Die my mijn hert doorwondt._

From where he sits in the corner of the cell, Lars hears shouting and the sharp rapport of guns at the end of the long corridor, out of sight. It takes too much of the energy he has too little of to begin with to raise his head, so he merely pricks his ears for the signs of someone approaching. Finally, there is one last cry before there silence reigns. Lars curls his hands into loose fists where they rest on his drawn-up knees; waiting, listening, _hoping_.

Hurried footsteps echo on stone and then someone is at the door to his cell, keys jangling quietly.

"_Lars."_

The quiet, horrified voice makes Lars want to lift his head; he wants to but his head is too heavy and he cannot. The Hunger Winter has taken much out of him as well. No matter how much of that horrible prison glop he eats (which isn't much in the first place), his belly remains empty- an echo of the starvation endured by so many in the Northern reaches of his country.

There is the sound of the door opening, and then someone is kneeling in front of him and there are gentle hands on his cheeks. His muscles tense in reflex at being touched, but he says nothing as the hands lift his face and brush dirty blonde hair away from his battered face.

Lars recognises his rescuer. His voice is hoarse from disuse, but his lips tilt upwards slightly as he whispers in the other man's ear.

"_Een engel..."_

And then, relieved, Lars closes his eyes and drifts out, safe within the protective circle of Canada's arms.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Since I'm not one for long author's notes, we're going to keep this short and sweet. The whole bunch of Dutch there is part of Het Wilhelmus, the Dutch national anthem and one of the oldest anthems in the world. This was written for this year's Valentines Exchange, so yes, I'm very very late in uploading this on here. But hey, better than never at all, right? Anyway, this will be a threeshot. Stay tuned for the next bit~

Mklnay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Angel**  
by Mklnay

* * *

The atmosphere in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife.

On the wheel, Matthew's fingers drummed erratically in nervous beat with music that wasn't on as, every once in a while, his blue eyes would flick anxiously to the tall form folded into the passenger seat. Apprehensively, he bit his lip and clenched and unclenched his fists, thrown far off his usual conversation by Lars' own, barely perceptible fidgeting.

It was a very strange predicament... Ever since he had gotten off the plane (arriving on the morning of February the 14th, of all days), Lars had been unusually distracted and jumpy, acting like he was going to hop out of his skin at any moment. Matthew, who was very good at reading people in general and Lars especially, after so many years, had picked up on the weird attitude quite quickly. But, when he had asked what was wrong Lars had been evasive, insisting that nothing was amiss, truly, when it was so clearly a lie.

'Frustrated' could not begin to cover what Matthew was feeling right at that moment. 'Worried' too, he supposed, because he had never seen Lars so worked up over anything before this.

But mainly it was frustration.

"U-um... Lars?"

Damn that sneaky little stutter. It snuck in when Matthew was least expecting it and made all of his sentences sound even more pathetic than they usually were. Beside him, Lars tried- and failed- to hide his start of surprise before he turned and gray eyes flashed to blue, leaving Matthew to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat.

"Yeah?"

"What- Uh... How was your flight?"

Matthew bit his lip harshly and cursed his own passive nature. He had meant to ask Lars directly what the matter was, but at the last moment his traitor mouth had blurted out something else entirely; repeating a question that he had already asked twice in the airport.

He could see Lars' barely concealed amusement all too clearly.

"It was alright," the older nation stated blandly, smiling and fiddling surreptitiously with his seatbelt buckle. "Same old, same old, really..."

Matthew tried to make his grimace look like a smile, even as he felt himself flush all the way to the roots of his blonde hair. Of course Lars would say that; had he ever said any different? It just made Matthew feel extremely stupid and shy and want to sink through the floor, if not for the fact that he was driving.

"Okay..." He murmured softly, fixing his eyes resolutely on the grey tarmac in front of him. He wanted to ask, but it was so difficult to push the words past his traitor mouth and tongue without them somehow turning into something else. It was almost like one of Arthur's bad magic tricks; rabbit goes into hat, rabbit does not come out of hat, there is charcoal burnt rabbit for dinner the next night.

Another few minutes passed in a rather awkward silence. Then, Lars' voice made Matthew jump.

"If you want to ask me something..."

"Eh, no! Um. I mean." Matthew shot a glance in Lars' direction and saw amusement lingering in his blue eyes, overlaying something deeper that Matthew didn't really have the time to examine. He nibbled at his lip and clenched his fingers tight around the steering wheel. "Well, that is... You're acting really strange, Lars."

There was a huff of slightly embarrassed laughter from the passenger seat as Lars scratched his head absently.

"Ahaha... I guess I am, huh?" he said, shooting Matthew a small smile. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it, eh, _schat_?"

Matthew was so busy ducking the hand that Lars reached out to ruffle his hair that he almost missed the serious expression that flitted over the taller nation's face as he looked at the shorter male. As it was, the sight of it gave him enough pause that Lars managed to muss the top of his head, and Matthew almost missed the turning into his street.

But then they were pulling up in front of Matthew's house and he was showing Lars to his room (the same one he always slept in, but Arthur had taught him how to be a good host), making sure he was settled. He was busy enough that Lars' strange expression of anticipation and anxiety- and something else that Canada thought looked vaguely familiar- was pushed to the back of his mind to be forgotten and remembered only when it would no longer be relevant.

* * *

This was a bad idea.

In fact, it was one of the worst ideas in the whole history of bad ideas. And for a nation, that was saying a lot.

The first thing Lars did after Matthew left his room was make a beeline straight for the window. His stomach seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat and he really, _really _needed some fresh air. Unfortunately, the latch was not very sympathetic, and it took Lars some five minutes of jimmying before the window slid open and he was able to stick his head out into the chill of Canada in February.

The cold made him jolt, but Lars grit his teeth and bore it because it was the first time since he boarded the plane at the Amsterdam Airport Schipol that he felt calm enough to actually _think _about what he had come here to do without becoming so flustered that he walked into a wall. Or something. (Because he hadn't _actually _walked into a wall. Well. Maybe once.)

Okay, so maybe this would be a bad idea. Because Matthew was about as likely to return his feelings as he was likely to jump on the table and belt out _Het Wilhelmus _at the top of his lungs.

But it didn't matter whether or not it was a bad idea. He was going to tell Matthew. He was going to tell him that he l- lov- that he- _godverdomme_, that he _loved _him and he was not going to back out of this decision now!

It would be so easy to simply turn around and pretend that this visit was just a spur of the moment decision to see Canada in February.

Not that there was really very much to see except snow at this time of year.

Lars sighed heavily, his breathe coming out as a plume of white condensation. Sixty years, he mused wearily. Sixty _years _and Lars had never said a word. Not when Matthew had visited him in the Allied hospital a week after his rescue. Not when Matthew's boss had gladly paid for Dutch brides to travel back to Canada. Not even when Matthew had hugged him gently, mindful of his wounds (The Hague and Rotterdam and Middelburg, they were all mending, but slowly), and Lars had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around the smaller man and never let go.

He had just stood by and smiled and suggested afterwards to the Queen that maybe, just maybe mind you, they should send tulips to Canada as a 'thank you' for sheltering the Princess and liberating their country, despite knowing full well what tulips meant in the global meaning of flowers. And, since he was- what was the saying? Oh, yes - In for a penny he might as well be in for a pound.

The personal bouquet he had sent to Matthew's house had been red. Red tulips.

Of course, Matthew wouldn't know the difference between red tulips and all the other colours of the flower, but Lars knew. He knew and he had said nothing when Matthew thanked him enthusiastically for the tulips with a beaming smile and absolutely no idea what they had meant.

The next bouquet he had sent him had been red and cream.

Lars had held his silence.

Over the years, as the Netherlands gifted Canada with tulips every May, the tulips Lars himself sent had become more varied. Yellow and pink mixed with variegated and purple, but there was always one single red tulip in the very centre of the bouquet.

He was tired of waiting.

Now, standing at the window with his fingers and face slowly going numb, Lars couldn't squash the general feeling of anxiety that was fizzling through his veins. Bretje was already on standby with their plan (because who else could a guy go to for advice on love other than his sister?) and all Lars had to do was get Matthew out of the house for a little while so that she could get things into place.

It wasn't as if he didn't look forward to it though, nervous though he was.

Taking a deep breath, Lars turned away and shut the window, hardly realising that he had been standing with his head in the cold outside for a good ten minutes. He was at the door in three long strides and, opening the door, Lars jogged into the hallway and down the stairs.

"Matt?" He called into the rest of the house, waiting until an answer floated back from the living room before calling, "Wanna go get an early lunch?"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** 'Schat' means dear. 'Engel' obviously means angel. Go look up the History behind the Canadian Tulip Festival; it's quite fascinating really. As is the whole history between this pairing. But I won't spoil it for you, as it's way more fun to go read it yourself. Stay tuned~

Mklnay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Angel  
**by Mklnay

_

* * *

B-_

_M and I going for lunch. Back around 1pm._

_-L_

* * *

_L-_

_Plan is a go! ;D Go get some broer!_

_-B_

Matthew's laughter rang out in the chill February air as he and Lars made their way slowly up the gravel path from the car, the pleasant sound sending shivers down the taller nation's spine. He had enjoyed lunch very much, Lars mused absently, but they were almost at the door and Bretje's sms had indicated that she was done with the preparations. Deliberately, the blonde man stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat to prevent himself from wringing them as he watched Matthew's laughing subside to occasionaly bursts of chuckling.

"Did England _really_ act like that when he was a sailor?" he asked, eliciting a grin from Lars. He winked one grey eye briefly and watched as the amused smile grew on Matthew's face.

"No, he was worse." Lars admitted, lips twitching in the effort to hold in the laughter. "He used to wear an eyepatch because it made him look more pirate-y."

Again, Matthew laughed softly at the mental image of stuffy England parading around in ruffled shirts and pirate hats and eyepatches. Lars would have laughed along with him, if the shorter nation hadn't started forwards to unlock the door.

Inside his chest, Lars' heart clenched and his throat constricted painfully. Now. Tell him now.

"Matt, wait-"

"What the _hell?_"

He blinked in shock as he stared past Matthew into the living room. Involuntarily, his mouth fell open and Lars immediately thought, _I'm going to _kill _Bretje_.

There were tulips _everywhere_; bunches of them in a myriad of hues stacked on the table, on the chairs, even a few tulips on the mantle in a tall blue vase. Everywhere he looked there were more baskets and more flowers, and Lars could feel a stress headache begin to pound behind his eyes.

Matthew advanced cautiously into the house, staring in sheer disbelief at the number of plants that had taken over his living room. There didn't seem to be a single space not sporting a bouquet. In the place of honour on the coffee table, there was a basket of flowers, fashioned into the shape of a maple leaf out of red tulips and surrounded by others in riot of colours. Gingerly, almost as if the flowers were going to eat him, the Northern nation picked it up and turned slowly around to look at Lars, whose face had paled remarkably at the sight of the floral effusion.

"Lars..." he said softly, blue eyes wide. "Did _you _do this?" With one hand, he waved to the gifts; Lars' national flower.

If it were possible, the taller man blanched even further. "I- no- I mean- There weren't supposed to be so _many_!"

Under any other circumstances, Matthew might have found Lars' obvious dismay hilariously funny. Now, though, he just felt confused. "But the Tulip Festival isn't until May."

"I know." Now, the first signs of colour crept back onto Lars' face in the form of a pink blush spreading over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. He stepped forward, shutting the front door behind him and lifted the basket of tulips from Matthew's grasp, plucking a single stem from the bouquet. From where he was standing, Matthew could here Lars take a deep, shaky breath to steady himself before he asked, "Do you know what tulips mean, Matt?"

That gave him pause for a moment as the shorter man frowned and searched his memory for the meaning of the tulip. He had known once, that was certain, but now the only thing that he knew about the tulip was that it was the National Flower of the Netherlands. Mutely, he shook his head 'no' and, before Matthew could even jump in surprise, gentle fingers had tucked the single tulip behind his ear.

Lars' voice was a soft, low rumble that sent a shudder down Matthew's spine. "Tulips mean 'perfect love'." The side of his thumb brushed Matthew's face briefly, making his blue eyes widen. "Variegated ones like this one mean that you have beautiful eyes."

You have beautiful eyes too, Matthew wanted to say, as he stood transfixed by slate grey irises and anchored by a deep, velvety voice. But his heart had leapt into his throat and was pounding in his ears like some mad drumbeat and Matthew found he couldn't so much as make a peep.

Lars continued to slowly decimate the bouquet.

"Yellow, for sunshine and happy memories." Another flower went behind Matthew's ear.

"White, for worthiness." The other ear this time.

"Pink, for gratitude ad appreciation." With two tulips behind each ear, Matthew was distantly surprised that they fit.

"And finally…" Lars trailed off hoarsely, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. From the basket he still held, he withdrew two tulips; one red and one cream, and offered them to Matthew. Wordlessly, he set the basket down on the table behind Matthew and his voice when he eventually straightened and spoke was barely more than a whisper. "Red is a declaration. It- it means 'I love you', and cream means 'I will love you… forever'."

It was almost hard to breathe with his heart in his throat like that and Matthew had almost missed Lars' words due to his heart's thundering in his ears. But, as he stared into Lars' face, earnest and passionate and more than a little bit terrified, Matthew finally realized where he had seen that look before,

That look was precisely the same look that Alfred always had whenever Arthur was around.

Matthew took the flowers.

There was a smile on his face as he lifted the two tulips to his nose and took a breath of the subtle, honeyed smell that tulips seemed to have. Taking the short moment to think, Matthew inspected the funny, warm feeling that had blossomed in the pit of his stomach; the same feeling, now that he thought about it, that he got whenever Lars came to visit and they spent time with each other.

"Matt?"

Surprised, Matthew looked up to see Lars had moved away a step and was now staring at him, the look on his face more panicked than anything. He was clearly waiting for an answer to his confession.

Matthew flushed. "Oh- um… Well." He bit his lip briefly in indecision. Then, Matthew closed the gap between them, still clutching the two tulips in a death grip and reached up to tuck the red and the cream flowers behind Lars' ear (it was most annoying to realize that he had to stand on tiptoe to comfortably reach Lars' head), resting his hands on Lars' shoulders for a long moment afterwards.

Quietly, he said, "'Red and cream. We match now."

For a long, long moment, Lars obviously did not register the meaning behind Matthew's words. He simply stood there with his brow furrowed adorably at the younger nation, before finally Matthew's shy, encouraging expression and hesitant smile elicited a wide, joyful grin from the older nation. "Yes, we match." He said softly, before slowly inclining his head towards Matthew's, eyes lingering on the shorter man's mouth.

Matthew only had to tilt his head up slightly to meet Lars' lips and his brain just seemed to… stop. Blissfully, he lifted his hands to cup Lars' cheeks even as one long, strong arm twined around Matthew's waist. After a moment longer, the Dutch nation tilted to deepen the kiss, gaining a soft moan from the shorter male. They only parted when oxygen started to become a serious issue, and even though they were both flushed and breathless, Lars still managed to slip one last word in edgewise past kiss-swollen lips that were tilted upwards in a tender smile.

"Happy Valentine's Day, _mijn Engel_."

To which Matthew responded by pulling Lars' face back down for another kiss.

_Fin_

_

* * *

_**Author's Notes:** So there you have it! It's over. x3 Hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Also, thank you very much to all those who reviewed and added this story to their favourites~ It makes me happy. :3 Cheers!

Mklnay.


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